


Broken Roads

by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Non-Consensual Sex, Prostitution, Whipping, non-graphic sexual situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1326274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natalie MacDonald did what she had to do during the war to survive, and her choices shaped her future heavily. But someone from her past threatens to topple everything she'd worked hard to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, yes, I know this character was named after a dying little girl. However, that being said, she is still a character and a blank slate and NOT that little girl. I can and will delete reviews complaining about this, and no, I won't change the character name. This is the story that played out in my head the moment her name appeared to me, and this is how it will stay.

He makes the strangest sounds every time the strands of my whip splay across his backside, which I assume are a mark of pleasure. After all, it _is_ what he wants, and it’s definitely something the little woman will never give him. Not like I do. Never like what I can do.

I’m no stranger to infidelity. The very nature of my profession tends to thrive on it, built to give a sense of satisfaction to the deviants that walk amongst us, cloaked in normalcy. There is nothing particularly unusual about men who like to be smacked around by their sex partners; in fact, I would go so far as to say that it’s even sort of normal. I don’t mind it a bit if it’s not enough to break limbs, so a few stray bruises aren’t going to squelch my enjoyment or, worse, keep me from doing my job.

My current client is a quiet one. I don’t suspect he’s particularly wealthy, but his robes are not traditional or well-made, suggesting that he is amongst the ever-growing half-blood society. I really don’t look at his face because he doesn’t want me to, and he had said as much. I don’t ask questions — again, part of the job. His voice isn’t powerful or distinct, especially whilst gasping and grunting under my ministrations.

Usually, after I’ve finished with the lashing, the latter half of the transaction is completed quickly. Sometimes, I wonder if the rest of it is even necessary other than making sure that they get their money’s worth, but I don’t get many complaints in that department. After all, treating johns well means repeat business and usually kinder treatment. As I said, I don’t mind some of the rough stuff, but I’d rather be on the pleasurable side of it.

It takes me a while to figure out that my customer is no longer moving or making a sound. For a moment, I worry that I’ve injured him, though I do my best not to do that, and I simply don’t do that strangling tosh. Not wanting to ruin the moment for him, I say coyly, “Do you need a breather, love?”

I am surprised when he brings up his hand to stroke my cheek. “Oh, Natalie . . .”

His words paralyse me. How does he know my real name? For all he knows, my name is Della Dupree, which bears no resemblance whatsoever to the name I was born with: Natalie MacDonald. Statistically speaking, I suppose it is inevitable that I would end up servicing someone who might know me as something other than a lady of the night, but it disturbs me just _how_ familiar this person seems to be with who I am during the daylight.

When the light switches on, I feel like I am going to be sick. Why didn’t I know it was him? Now that I think about it, his voice is stupidly familiar to me. I really should’ve realised, but I never would have thought that I would find him again quite like this. Ellie will be displeased if she finds out. “You shouldn’t be here. You have a wife and kids, Jimmy.” The childish nickname ‘Jimmy’ feels asinine on my lips. My old classmate is far too stocky and stout to be a ‘Jimmy’. I forget all of my earlier assertions that I do a service for married couples with mismatched preferences. It’s hard to do when you actually know who they are.

As if reading my thoughts, he says, “It’s just ‘Jim’ now. And the old boiler and me are sort of on the way out at the moment.” His voice is bitter, but not tinged with regret I would expect from someone seemingly on the doorstep of divorce.

Hearing him refer to Eleanor as an ‘old boiler’ makes me want to laugh, but I catch myself. Even though I haven’t seen her since their wedding well over ten years ago, I recall her being fresh-faced and sweet. Then again, growing up does that to people — I should know. The shine wears off of sometimes when you’re not young anymore. Goodness knows I haven’t been young for ages.

“People change, Natalie,” he sighs, almost echoing my previous sentiment, though I feel like he isn’t talking about his wife anymore. I am suddenly acutely aware of my nudity, and I slide to the far side of the bed, not looking at him as I wrap myself in a sheet. “Yeah, they do,” I agree once my eyes are gratefully looking somewhere else besides my best friend turned my very first boyfriend and then a veritable stranger.

“I’ve tried to write to you,” he presses, “asked around to find out where you lived or where you worked, but it was like you dropped off the face of the planet! To think, all this time, you’ve been skulking around Knockturn Alley like a common hooker.”

It is like a slap in the face. “I _am_ a common hooker, and I’m good at what I do,” I say icily. His words bring me back to a dark place I don’t want to be, one that squashes my youthful innocence in the dirt every time it crosses my mind, and I hate him for making me go back there.

“Natalie, this isn’t you.” I can almost see his fingers running through his hair. It’s an old habit of his. “When I saw you, I didn’t want to believe this is what you do. I came here hoping to find out I was mistaken.”

I want to scream in frustration. “You have _no_ idea who I am, where I’ve been! Do you know what it’s _like_ , doing things you never thought you’d do to survive?” My brain automatically wills unwanted images of squatting in abandoned building and learning my trade far too early into my head, and I force it back. No regrets. I did what I had to do to survive a war that wanted me dead or captured. I’m good at this, and it isn’t like other prospective employers won’t balk at someone who is in their thirties with no ‘real’ work experience. I made my choice, not the other way around.

Jim shakes his head. “No, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.”

Hearing the judgement in his voice, I sneer. “You didn’t have any complaints ten minutes ago, not that it’s any of your business.” From my bag in the corner of the room, I pull out the small pouch of Galleons given in payment before we started and fling it at his chest. “And, as it turns out, it _isn’t_ any business of yours unless you pay me for my time.” With a mockingly placating voice, I say, “A refund for you, sir. I apologise that I was not able to meet your expectations tonight.”

My hands tremble as I begin to dress, and I feel his eyes boring into my back as I awkwardly pull on my short, black dress. I do my best to ignore the stray tears waddling down my cheeks until I can’t see the floor in front of me. The back of my hand is smeared in kohl, and I know I must look a fright. Sad women have smeared make-up. I was never a sad woman, but I am right now.

Arms wrap around my waist, and I am grateful that they keep me from sliding to the floor in a pathetic mess. Jim whispers a medley of apologies and reassurances in my ear as I curl feebly into his chest. “I wanted to look for you that entire year,” he says, “but I knew it would be too dangerous. When you came back to Hogwarts, you were so different, and I didn’t know what to say. I should’ve looked for you. I’m sorry, Natalie. I’m so sorry.”

And so am I.

In gasps and whispers, I tell him. No more secrets kept from my old childhood friend and sort-of school boyfriend. Running for my life at the age of fourteen simply because of my blood status. Sleeping with scary old men for money or sometimes just a sandwich. Dangerous drug addicts selling my body for a fix in exchange for not killing me outright. Three suicide attempts before the age of eighteen.

He holds me. I let him, even if he’s whispering meaningless reassurances into my hair like a mum. He knows things my own parents don’t know, and there is an unspoken agreement that we will never speak of them again.

We fall asleep at the inn, at a crossroads. I wake up feeling like a new path sits outside the door. It won’t be easy — and there will be a price that has nothing to do with money — but the Jimmy Peakes I knew as a girl and the Jim Peakes who found me when I didn’t want to be found are both worth the cost. He believes I am, too. That makes all the difference.


End file.
